Bucket Lists
by Cinders and Brimstone
Summary: Follows Astrid and John as they spend some of their free time working on their bucket lists.
1. Fingers

**AN: Just a little something for my new ship.**

* * *

This wasn't some endless love.

He was John. (Former) Leader of Rebels. Stoic. Hardened. Chiselled. He didn't do endless love, with all its sappy mushiness and rom-com foolishness. He didn't do soulmates and valentines. He didn't do that ooey-gooey, taste the rainbow bullshit. He was _John_.

He riffled through the refrigerator, searching out a cold beer. He'd hidden a six pack in the vegetable drawer… but they were gone now. Consumed, by the ravenous hordes of mongrel vagabonds. His _family_ for the time being… He grabbed a water and decided to make do. No calories this way. He didn't have crazy teenage metabolism anymore and it wouldn't do to start putting on weight.

Not now…

He took his seat at the table and tried to not wince as his stitches pulled tight. Russell gave him a look. A wry, cranky, angry-nurse look.

"I'm fine," he answered, trying to stem the tirade before it began. He cracked the bottle and took a sip of cool refreshing mountain spring water.

"You're not fine," Russell snapped back. "Stop walking around like you're okay! You keep bleeding through your bandages!"

True. He'd had to change them twice already for the day. "I'll go back to bed once this gets decided. We have business to fix."

Astrid business.

And he smiled a little bit at the mental mention of her name. He didn't know any other Astrids. She was the only one. The way there was only one Angeline Jolie.

Astrid Finch.

A serious name.

A name for a lawyer, probably. Or a policewoman. Or a World War nurse.

This was a crush. Maybe.

The very beginning of a crush. The inception of an infatuation_. _ Which was understandable, he thought. They'd spent the better part of a day together hiding out from Ultra agents. There was the little thing of him being shot and bleeding all over her and her digging the bullet out… She'd been _inside_ of him, in some inverted semi-sexy way. Very intimate. Very _ooh_ and _ahh_. Her fingers had been inside him. She'd fingered his _soul_, dammit. Fingered his soul and held his hand and cried big crocodile tears. Fingered his fucking _soul_ and sang.

He took another mouthful of water in an attempt to wash it all away. _Come on John, snap back to reality_, he commanded himself. _Return to gravity._

But that was easier said than done. The trouble was he _liked_ it. In some unhealthy corner of his mind, he liked it. This weird, drifty, happy, excited, exalted, summersaulted, neurotic, desperate, impossible, He-Man conqueror feeling…

_We can be heroes_, she'd sang.

Of all the songs to sing, she'd pick that one? The David Bowie song?

The fucking Godzilla song?

Of course they could be heroes! If that's what she wanted to be, of course. They were already well on their way. He had saved her life and taken a bullet for her in the process, a very Kevin Costner thing to do. Dare he say, _heroic_. And she had gone all Lara Croft Florence Nightingale and dug the bullet out of his gut _using_ _her fingers. _Stitched him up with a needle and thread like some kinda Martha Stewart Lady MacGyver.

He would be King.

And she would be Queen.

And they'd be fucking heroes, dammit. For a day or however fucking long they chose.

Russell was still giving him the eye. Trying to get into his brain and tell him to go back to his room. But fuck that. He had a personal interest in this little _council_ meeting. He was invested.

How could he not be invested? Who could blame him for caring? She'd stayed with him through the whole thing, panicking and going crazy and making audacious attempts at calming _him_ down. _You're the one who's crying_, he'd wanted to tell her when she'd stared in on her iterations of "You're gonna be okay." _I know I'm going to be okay, so stop crying._

But her tears had been mind-blowingly cute and he really hadn't minded them at all. They'd made him think about Jesus, oddly enough. Heaven and marshmallows and fireplaces and all sorts of fluffy things. Lady Antebellum and Sarah McLachlan singing about puppies–

"So," Stephen tilted his chair up on his hind legs in that irritating way of his. The orange overhead light bulb cast awkward shadows on his face. "How are we going to do this? A vote?"

Cara frowned. In her spot on the lone armchair in the room, she looked like a warlord on a throne. All hard edges and blunt force. Fierce. Strong. Hard. "I'm the leader of this group. We had an election and the people chose me. I have to keep us all safe. They're trusting me to do that. _Me_."

John flinched. "And we've all seen that maybe you're not the absolute best decision maker." It left his mouth before he could do anything about it. "We should have a vote. Not a big group vote. Just us."

If he was still Leader of the Rebels, it wouldn't be up for debate. The girl would already have a room set up for her. Ultra agents had tried to kill her despite the fact that she was a normal regular homo sapien. They had tried to kill her. And he had taken a bullet for her.

In some countries, she'd have become his property. She'd have had to repay her debt with a lifetime of servitude. He wasn't sure exactly which country, but somewhere in some far place, in some parallel dimension he _owned_ her.

Not in a slave way, because that would be weird and wrong, but in a fun, sexy way. In some other dimension, _she'd _be the one changing his bandages, not gross Russell with his beard and inappropriate jokes. She'd look up at him and be all, "I live to serve you."

She'd cook his meals herself and feed them to him. She'd give him baths and towel him off. Wash his hair and laugh at the soap suds when they got in her eyes… And he'd kiss her… And–

"John!" Cara, calling him back to fucking earth.

Back to the world as it was and out of the world as it should be. Back to the dingy dimension where nothing ever went his way. "Yeah. I'm here. Pain meds are making me a little woozy. That's all. What are we doing?"

"We're voting." Cara closed the door to the kitchen and returned to her chair. Her face tightened as she sat back down. It was the _stone cold bitch_ face. The face he'd gotten more than accustomed to these last couple of months. "I'll go first. I vote no. She's not one of us, and while I sympathise with her situation, we can't just take on her troubles. We're not the Salvation Army. We're already on Ultra's radar as it is. Why should we draw more heat on ourselves. We can't help her. We should put her on a plane to Siberia. Somewhere out of Ultra's reach. That's the best we can do for her."

As expected.

Leadership hadn't sat well with her. It had morphed into some sort of permanent PMS-having soviet militia cyborg. Everything she did, she had to think about _the_ _people_. And what was _right. _And who'd be _responsible_ and _accountable._ Everything with her was about _war_ and _winning_ and _survival._

"Well," Stephen's chair landed with a wooden _thunk,_ "I vote yes. She's my best friend, has been my only friend for _years,_ and it's my fault she's in this mess. I can't just turn my back on her. I can't just carry her back to her house and let Ultra kill her."

"You guys shouldn't have brought her here in the first place." Russell. He was staring at the tablecloth not meeting any of their eyes. "This is a hideout for Tomorrow People. No humans allowed. I don't see why we even have to vote on this."

Betrayal. Stinging red betrayal. He'd counted on Russell being pro-Astrid. He played the piano. She sang. They should have been kindred spirits. Birds of a feather and all that. "Come on, Russell. You're gonna kick her out?"

"I don't know her, John." Russell answered with a shrug. "I shouldn't have to risk my life for her."

"You met her at the pizza party! The pretty girl with the curls!"

"I know who she is, John, but what I'm saying is that compared to the other guys… We have to put Tomorrow People first. We can't endanger ourselves any more than is necessary."

"This _is_ necessary!"

"I'm sorry. I'm voting no. Nothing personal against the girl. I just think it would be safer for everyone, her and us, if we hid out in separate places."

John groaned. A sound born out of frustration, understanding and pain. His meds were wearing off and sitting upright wasn't helping. "Well, I'm voting yes, so we're tied. Two for, two against."

Cara cleared her throat. "As I'm the leader here I think my vote should count twice."

Stephen's fist slammed into the table. "Fine then. I didn't want to pull the rank card, but as _the_ _Chosen_ _One_, I think my vote should count twice. I'm voting on behalf of my father – the guy who's going to save all of our asses. "

"And we're still tied." Cara deadpanned.

"Cara, I am begging you," Stephen persisted. "Let her stay. Not forever. Just until Ultra cools down and I can figure out what to do with her. Do this for me. Please. Forget about everything and give me this."

A long silence passed. A pregnant silence, as they said. A silence of doubt and darkness and hope. John squirmed, trying to get into a position that was less painful. What he had to do was go take his painkillers, but the tension in the air was too crushing. Where all his pleading had gone in vain, where all his wishes had been cast aside, Stephen might succeed. Stephen and his special connection might prevail…

The lone woman in the room, Cara, who he'd known as the most stubborn hard ass of all time, sighed. "If I let her stay–"

"Thank you!" he and Stephen said at the same time. Both of them giddily happy. Smiles on their faces as though they'd just one some type of prize at a county carnival. Their eyes met across the table… and the world froze around them. Each one seeing the other for the first time.

Right.

Stephen.

The best friend.

He should be grateful. Astrid was staying. Astrid was safe… Where he had failed the Chosen One had succeeded… Stephen Jameson, who had wormed his way into the heart of the Tomorrow People, had got what he wanted once again. Cara had anointed him the Chosen One, and he'd just swept John's world away piece by piece…

Stephen Jameson.

John stared. Trying to see what he'd missed before. What he had overlooked.

It was beyond clear enough how both women felt about the boy. The fucking high school boy. Obviously Cara loved him. They were always in each other's heads working on their link, their special connection, their bullshit. It was only a matter of time before they slept together _again._ Every day they got closer and closer and closer…

And as he drifted closer to Cara the Rambo Woman, he drifted further and further away from Astrid the girl…

Astrid the pixie. The girl who was just a girl. The girl who sang about being a hero_, _just for one day.

John held on to the table for support and pulled himself to his feet. Standing was such a chore now that his abs were decommissioned. His whole body felt like it should be decommissioned. He needed rest. A soft bed with pillows and clean sheets. A good movie.

This wasn't his battle. He was just John, the former rebel leader. He didn't have battles anymore…

He shouldn't care, really. The girl was Stephen's friend, not his. It was Stephen's concern what became of her.

Except suddenly he now had this odd, awesome desire to smash Stephen's head in with a shovel. Let him stop time and be all messianic with his skull caved in.

"If I let her stay," Cara continued, "She'll have to sleep on a couch, because we're out of rooms as it is."

"Fine," the both of them answered again, him and Stephen.

* * *

"Knock, knock," he said as he slid into the armchair next to the sofa. Not the best opening line he'd ever used, but it would have to do.

She rolled over to face him and pulled the buds out of her ears. Her eyes were big and puffy and red. Sad. Very sad, all crumpled in on herself like a lamb in a dragon's den. A sad little lamb.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" he asked, a grin on his face to let her know that he meant no harm. "You look as though you took a bullet in your gut."

She sat up and pushed her hair back out of her face. A whole lot of hair, he noticed. He'd never really taken in the extent of the girl's hair. "How are you?" she muttered.

"I've been better."

"Haven't we all?"

He coughed as he stifled down a chuckle. It hurt to laugh. It hurt like hell. And there was nothing to laugh at really.

"Not that I'm not grateful for the hospitality," she continued, "But you guys literally live in a hole in the ground." She sighed in exasperation and let her shoulders fall. "And I'm crashing on a couch in a hole in the ground. Which makes me the most pathetic person on the planet."

He shook his head. "Living down here, that makes us hobbits," he winked. "And speaking of hobbits, I've come up with a bucket list." He couldn't stop himself from beaming. "My list of things to do before I die."

"Don't look so excited about it. Hopefully you aren't dying anytime soon."

He shrugged. "Who knows? It might be a year from now, or a decade from now or, ironically enough, tomorrow. There's no time to lose."

"Okay?" she squinted at him, reeking cautious doubt .

"You have one, I thought I should get one too. And we'll work on the two of them from time to time. Slow and steady we'll get through it all and I was thinking we could start tonight."

"Hmm?" Her eyebrows pulled in tight. "Tonight?"

"Well, my list is a whole lot simpler than yours. I only have one thing on it so far," he reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavily folded piece of paper and passed it to the girl.

She read it with a mask of scepticism plastered over her face. "Watch the Lion King?"

"It's a classic, I hear. The best Disney movie ever made. It was on a list in the Rolling Stones magazine. A lot of people say it's really good."

"It's…" She hesitated. "It's alright, I guess."

"Right, so I was thinking we could watch it. It'll be fun. Better than you sleeping on a couch feasting on your sorrows.

"Yeah, but there's no TV," she groaned. "I've been through this place thoroughly. Zero TVs."

"Really, I hadn't noticed." He smirked, "Of course I know there's no TV. Obviously I meant that we'd go somewhere and watch it. All we need is a hotel with an empty room. That's easy enough to come by. You'll be surprised at how often we actually do stuff like that. Sneak out."

"I thought it wasn't safe."

Well it wasn't safe. Life hadn't been safe for him since the day he'd been born. So what? "It's not, but at the same time, it's not _extremely_ dangerous. We're just breaking in to a hotel to enjoy some domestic comforts like normal human beings."

She gave him a look. A look he was starting to recognised as her 'mildly offended' look. "I'm a normal human being."

"Exactly," he smiled. "You're making my point for me. We've had a tough day and, by God, we deserve a little R and R._ I'm_ not going to spend tonight sleeping on a couch. I'm sleeping somewhere fancy, the only question is if your in… or out?"

She gave him a grin. Wiped at her eyes and made another attempt to pull her hair back from her face. "I've seen the movie at least a hundred times. Do I have to?"

"Well, I took a bullet for you, so yeah, you kinda have to."

The smile spread across her face, lighting up every inch of it. "Why can't we just teleport into a cinema and watch something new? We could go see every single movie that's showing."

John shook his head. "If you want to do that, you'll have to put it on _your _bucket list. Tonight is my night. And I'm thinking Lion King."

"Fine," she grumbled, looking anything but put out. "But we'll need pizza, ice cream and alcohol."

"Deal." He leaned over and took her hand. "Ready?"


	2. Failing Sobriety

**AN – I just kinda imagine John living out of a 24 hour gym… **

* * *

_Just when I think I'm out… This motherfucker shows up to pull me back in._

At some point, he'd begun referring to Stephen as The Motherfucker. In his mental notes and private reminiscing, Cara was _Her _and Stephen was _The Motherfucker_. It just fit, deservedly or not. In some thwarted way, Stephen was just the absolute motherfucking worst. Always reading somebody's mind. Always having some sordid _special_ bond. Always just _there, _lurking_, _needing, expecting and demanding.

John kept his eyes straight ahead, unfettered. He increased the speed on the treadmill bringing it up to 13 mph and added another 0.5 to the incline as well, feeling the burn immediately in the back of his thighs. A perfect pain.

It hurt all over really, especially in that spot where the bullet had ripped through him, but he liked it. Physical pain was good. Kept him grounded in the here and the now and out of the tangent worlds of _if_. Worlds where he was a king and a hero, instead of a castaway. Soft, delicate and fragile worlds.

Running was good. Running was safe. All he had to think about was getting one foot in front of the other. Thump, thump, thump. Stomp, stomp, stomp… _Breathe_. One big breath in… and a slow one out. In. Out. In. Out. Repeat. Repeat until he collapsed. Until his lungs went dry and his heart exploded.

He pressed his hand to the monitor and waited for it to pick up on his pulse… 163bpm.

Stephen raised his eyebrows as he leaned over and read the number. "Not bad, but don't you think you're pushing it?"

John huffed, sucking in much needed air. "As if I'd take fitness advice from a guy who's failing PE."

"That's a low blow," Stephen twisted, coming round the treadmill and leaning on the bars. "I'm only failing because I keep ditching class to help out with Ultra and Tomorrow People business."

John shrugged. "Failing is failing." He increased the speed again, bringing it up to 14 mph.

All he wanted to do was run. Run and leave everything behind. Yeah, he wasn't moving anywhere, the treadmill being bolted down to the ground and all, but metaphorically, _spiritually_ if you will, he was leaving it all behind him.

_Her, _Cara. Russell. His underground headquarters. All the Tomorrow People he'd personally rescued who'd turned their backs on him. His treacherous pound puppies… Ultra. All his dozens of Ultra handlers and partners. His Annex companions. The nefarious Jedikiah. The big badass Founder and his brainwashed daughter…

Those were yesterday's concerns. _Yesterday's _problems. What the fuck was yesterday to him?

Stephen's hand came down on the big red _emergency_ button and the whole set up came crashing to a halt. It was all he could do not to trip over his feet. The blood started doing funny things to his brain and the room dimmed. The sounds of the gym became muffled and hushed as though someone was holding seashells to his ears. "The hell, Stephen?"

"Stop running like a million dollar baby and listen to me."

John gulped in giant breaths. "Are you calling me a baby?" He grabbed his towel, dabbed at the excess sweat that was running into his eyes. He'd have to get one of those headbands. A blue one probably, to bring out his eyes because no one ever fucking noticed that he had blue eyes. "I might not be a super synergist but have you completely forgotten that I _can_ kill you?"

Stephen smiled at the threat. "Sticks and stones, I know you won't."

Probably not, but the thought kept crossing his mind with increasing frequency. No more Chosen One. No more _Stephen._ No more _"he's-my-best-friend." _No more _"we-have-a-connection." _John took a swig of Gatorade and swished it around inside his mouth. "Are you one hundred percent sure?" he asked and arched an eyebrow.

He'd grab a shower, wash his hair, his fucking _blond_ hair… and then go somewhere fancy and steal dinner. Then maybe steal a movie at the cinema… except he'd have to watch it alone and there was absolutely no fun in that anymore.

Stephen followed him into the locker room. "I thought we were friends."

"I slept on your couch a couple nights–"

"Exactly. Admit it, we've bonded. You ate breakfast with my little brother. You helped my mum with pancakes."

"Only because your mum is hot," he shot back as he started stripping. He gave himself a lookover in the mirror. There was the small matter of the scar, but it was healing up rather nicely. Added to his rugged appeal. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Then Stephen's face appeared in the mirror, all contorted and gargoyle-ish. "Not funny."

Of course it wasn't funny. It had been days since anything had happened that had been funny. "Is your mom off limits? It still occurs to me that I haven't right paid you back for sleeping with Cara."

Stephen scowled. "Dude–"

"What makes you think I don't have some shady ulterior motive hanging around your family?" John paused, suggestively hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. All he wanted to do was change, grab a shower and be on his way, but why not prod and provoke the angel boy a bit? He put on his smuggest, lowliest, sleaziest smirk. "By next week I could be your stepdad. I'll move in to _your_ house. Slowly destroy _your_ life… I know how much you love camping–"

Cue nose punch.

* * *

"Are you done being a jackass?"

John turned to the side, inspecting his nose from all angles in the mirror. It didn't look broken… He could still breathe out of it, both nostrils were working fine. "I'm done."

Stephen pushed his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for not hitting me back, though."

John shrugged, pulling his scarf into place. One side was supposed to be longer than the other, but he was liking the symmetrical feel to it. "I wouldn't hit you, Stephen. You're the Chosen One, after all. The fate of our people rests in your hands…"

"Will you be serious for five minutes?"

He could try, sure, but in those five minutes, the reality of his situation might bitch slap him into a coma. He was homeless. Purposeless. _Ronin_. "I can try." He turned and saw that the boy was still standing in front of the door. Like a bouncer, blocking his exist. Then it clicked in his head. Stephen had tracked him all the way to a gym that was surround by fountains and pools, followed him into the bathroom, waited while he'd showered and gotten dressed. This wasn't a social call. This wasn't their regular howdy-do. "Are you using your body to barricade the door?"

Stephen paused for a moment, studied his position and then nodded. "I guess I am."

"And what exactly is stopping me from just teleporting out of here?" He started packing his stuff back into his bag. His towels. His soap. Axe Body Spray. His dirty socks… His toothbrush and Sensodyne toothpaste. "By the determined look on your face and your beyond rigid posture, I can only assume you want my help with something. You and Cara have some secret, high risk, save-the-world mission and she needs more bodies to sacrifice? She needs somebody to play lookout? What is it?" He decided to leave the scarf just as it was. Perfect. "Whatever it is, I don't care. I'm not going back to Headquarters. I'm not grovelling for her forgiveness. For the thousandth time, I stand by my actions and by what I said. Me and Cara are done and over with so don't think you can show up and get me to–"

Stephen sighed. His shoulders slumped down to a more natural level. "It's not a Cara problem."

_Hmm? _

All week he'd been assaulted by nothing but Cara problems. Russell kept hassling him to come back. New breakouts to recruit… Old breakouts acting out… All the drama that he had left behind.

He grabbed his gym bag and finish stuffing in his dirty clothes. He'd have to make a pass at a Laundromat soon enough. Either that or, he'd have to steal a new wardrobe, "Nothing to do with Cara?"

"Nothing to do with Cara. Promise."

"Well, then, _enlighten_ me, my dear Chosen One."

"Can you stop calling me that?"

He could. He was only doing it to be a deliberate jerk. "You have this vein that runs down the centre of your forehead and I like the way it splits your face into a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, Harvey Two-Face something."

Stephen glared. "Being homeless has made you a real pain, you know that? I mean, it's not like you were Mr Congeniality before, but now, you're a real tool. I'm actually wondering why I even thought you could help me."

_Hmm_?

He cared. Whether or not he liked the boy, he had to admit that to some extent, they were friends… In some bizarre, _uncanny_ way. The way Wolverine and Cyclops were 'friends'. "Alright, shoot. What do you want?"

Stephen slumped in relief. His face was on the verge of smiling. "I need a babysitter."

_Hmm? _

John paused, his brain not knowing what to make of the situation. "For you or your little brother? In both cases the answer is no. First, you're old enough to change your own diaper, and second, your brother is an alright kid, but he, too, is old enough. I'm a little bit disgusted by the idea, frankly. I haven't babysat since my days in foster care. I hated it then, and I don't think I'm loving it now."

Stephen put up a hand, "Not me, and not an actual babysitter. There's just someone who needs someone else... to look in on them…" he trailed off.

John felt his eyebrows raising on their own will. The intrigue was just too much. So much secrecy and shadows and subterfuge… "Who? Tell me or I'm going to hack into your head and find out. Why are you being weird?"

"It's Astrid."

_Mmmmmm_?

His brain did a weird summersault on itself. His ears perked up. His tail started wagging. "Astrid?"

Chocolate ice-cream mashed together with rum and raisin. That was the last thing they'd eaten together. She'd made him wait for it to melt just to that perfect point where their flavours would run together.

And she'd hummed along softly to all the songs of the Lion King. She'd smiled like a demon when Scar'd done his bad guy song with his eerily Nazi-like hyena legion…

_Just when I think I'm out… This motherfucker pushes me back in._

Back in to the nebula of fucking feels and tingles and sensations… Ugh.

_Astrid_.

He'd managed to put all of that behind him, dammit. He'd been sober for days. Actual fucking _days_.

And now poof. All his sobriety, gone. Eradicated. Vanquished.

He had to fight to keep his face straight. To stop his lips from curling up into a giddy smile. Already his brain was flashing back through its catalogue of Astrid memories. He had a mental scrapbook now, an organized collection of every single Astrid interaction and at the mention of her name, at the sound of it, he was transported back to that moment where he'd caught her staring at him.

While he'd had a slice of pizza in his hand. Three pieces of salami there'd been on that slice of pizza. And two chunks of pineapple.

Now he knew exactly how she liked her pizza. With extra cheese. Extra pepperoni. Extra mushrooms. Extra ham.

"John?"

"Huh?" He put his gym bag back down on the counter. Back to the locker room and reality. "What's wrong with Astrid?"

"Nothing's wrong with her–"

He swung his bag over his shoulder. His little knapsack with all his possessions. "I'm not taking another bullet for her. That shit hurts, and quite frankly, I think that as the _best_ _friend, _the bullet-taking is more up your alley than mine."

"I _know_ that" Stephen started. "It's nothing dangerous. I just need you to stay with her for a little while. She's having a hard time dealing with this whole thing–"

"What whole thing?" John squinted down at the boy. "You mean how you told her about the Tomorrow People and Ultra? How you've recklessly endangered her life? That whole thing?"

"Yes," Stephen frumped. "She's safe now though. I organised everything, but even though I've told her about the new deal I've made, she's still not convinced–"

"You mean she doesn't totally trust you since the incident of the drive by shootout? She doesn't just blindly take your word for it that she's safe?"

"I know, alright. You don't have to make me feel like an asshole over that. I dropped the ball. I know. Trust me, I _know_. But she's my best friend and I want to do the right thing here and if that means cashing in a favour with you, then so be it."

"What makes you think you have favours to cash in?" he asked. He ran his fingers through his hair one more time to give it his trademark ruffled look. At some point in time, he'd have to shave. His stubble was becoming a beard. Why hadn't he shaved? At least he'd showered and rinsed off that homeless scent.

And he had his scarf.

"My mother made you pancakes. You owe me."

But he'd saved the boy's life countless times already. There was no debt between them. No favours to be called in. And they both knew it. Instead John groaned. Stretched lazily, as if he were bored. "So... what is it exactly that you want me to do?"

Stephen shrugged, a pleading look on his face. "Babysit… Guard. Protect. Watch over… Anything along those lines short of taking another bullet for her, I guess. Just a general lookout. And if you can manage it," he winced "Cheer her up a little?"

* * *

**AN – mostly a John chapter, but I figured that if I was indeed going to turn this into a multi-chaptered something, I might as well get in some John development. Chapter 3 with Astrid coming soon (possibly today or tomorrow).**

**And btw, pretty, pretty please can somebody follow me on Tumblr? I'll totes follow you back. Promise. I have this sort of fantasy where all fanfictioners can follow and stalk each other on tumblr, wouldn't that be fun? I'm still not 100% sure what tumblr actually is except for a place for fangirling at leisure but I like it. **

**I'm tenlegdragon Gimme a follow please! Jostrid shippers UNITE!**

**R****eviews are always welcomed. And thanks ten thousand for all the favourites and the follows. Everytime I see one in my inbox I get a kind of joy in my heart that makes me smile for hours on end. So thanks!**


	3. Aero Dynamics

**As promised.**

* * *

Her room was cotton candy pink and so impossibly girlish he had a fleeting worry that he'd catch cooties.

Cooties, being the least of it. He held his breath, not sure what to do. Breathe? Inhale? Absorb her into his system? That wouldn't be smart. He'd heard about people OD-ing their first time on a drug. Just straight up died. And he'd always done his best to keep to the straight and narrow… He was a newbie to the hard stuff.

And now here he was. Adrift in her den of organised homeliness. Her narcotic, jasmine scented lair…

In the middle of it all, in the eye of the pink maelstrom was the one and only Astrid. White iphone buds plugged into her ears as her eyes moved over her laptop screen. Just stretched out on her bed, a fluffy white comforter discarded and tossed to the floor.

If possible, her curls even wilder.

With hair like that, it would figure that she'd have very limited peripheral vision.

Ponytails were safer.

Less for a bad guy to grab at. Less for _any_ guy to grab at…

Pink shorts. A white tank top. A whole heap of skin, arms and legs… and a little glimpse of belly as the tank top she wore rode up a bit. Bare feet. Switching back and forth in some rhythm, perhaps in time to whatever music she was listening to.

Cute. Sexy. Virginal and erotic smashed up together like chocolate peanut butter and tabasco. Extra sweet, with a tangy, sizzly, permanent aftertaste.

He would have to buy a phone he realised. He didn't have photographic memory and creepily enough he was starting to lend some serious thought to scrapbooking. Actual physical scrapbooking. A Nokia phone, probably, with some crazy megapixel camera. And then maybe he'd buy a laptop. And install fucking photoshop. And spend his free time just going around stalking pretty women and taking candid shots of them when they didn't know he was in the room with them.

God knew he had the free time.

And also, another good reason to buy a phone – not everyone in the world was a telepathic Tomorrow Person who could talk to him just by thinking about it. He had human friends now. More accurately, he had one single human friend now. What if she had some kind of emergency?

Of course in any emergency, she'd call Stephen the _best_ friend first…

But what if it turned out that Stephen was… otherwise engaged? With family stuff or Ultra stuff or _Her _stuff_? _

He'd have to get a phone.

And maybe a bell to wear around his neck to make a noise whenever he was nearby, because it was nearly a minute now that he'd been in the room with her and she still hadn't noticed him. Hadn't felt his presence, his aura, his essence… Hadn't heard him breathing. Hadn't felt his eyes on her.

Like a lamb, or a foal, or some small, (cute), uber vulnerable woodland creature… Zero survival instincts.

He could have been anyone. An Ultra henchman. A human paedophile creeper. A burglar…

John paused. Trying to put some thought into what he was actually doing.

_Is this bird watching?_

_Stargazing?_

_Am I being a total creep?_

"Hey!"

She jumped so high she nearly fell off her bed. There was a chaotic scrambling, like a ten legged crab doing an Irish sniper dance. No bodily coordination. The earbuds went flying to the other end of her room, she just _flung_ them and the phone. Probably trying to hit him with it but missing wildly. Zero hand eye coordination. "Jesus!" she shrieked, "John." She got to her knees and started pulling her hair back in frantic big handfuls. "You have to not do that!"

And miss this reaction? The blood in her face tinting her pink all the way up to her ears? The panicky deep breaths? The wild crazy eyes and the spectacular grin/grimace/scowl/smile that was all lips and teeth?

He took a few steps back, taking in the remarkable mess of her room. It was a big room. Huge as far as rooms went. Bigger than what they'd had him in back in his Ultra days. Pictures of her dad everywhere. A woman who might be her mother. One… two… three photos of her and Stephen. Some other guy who was probably a cousin?

Posters on her wall. Bowie, U2, Kings of Leon… A lot of other bands that he couldn't recognize. The guy from Red Hot Chili Peppers… A shitload of Aerosmith… CDs all over. Anime stuff. Dragonball and Naruto figurines. Dolls with cat ears and cat paws. A huge kendo costume in a corner, wooden sword in hand and a Japanese _oni_ mask on its face. Textbooks. Chemistry and math… An actual fucking dollhouse that looked more like it belonged in a renaissance miniature collection – a huge plantation-style house with dolls and furniture and the full works. A mountain of stuffed toys. Bears in dresses. Bears on bicycles and pink tricycles. Unicorns and muppets. Kermit and Miss Piggy in a wedding dress.

Guitars stacked neatly in the corner. Three guitars, a couple acoustics and an electric.

A pink electric guitar…

And the smile that he'd been trying to fight for so long broke free. "Jesus, you're such a girl."

She pulled a pillow to her chest and hugged it. "And you're such a cave dude, with your grizzly beard. Where have you been, living in a… cave?"

"A gym, actually, but your close. There were a lot of body-builders and no AC."

She still wasn't moving from her deer in headlights position. Her eyebrows knitted up together and she made her _'I'm-still-not-sure-this-checks-out'_ face. "How'd you know where I live?"

He shrugged. "I'm telepathic. I know where _everyone_ lives. I did a jedi mind meld on you the first time we met. I know _everything, _Astrid. _Everything_."

Her stare was blank. Her face was frozen. A mask of pure horror. "You did not."

He smiled. "No. I found out from Stephen. Our mutual _friend_."

She bounced at that, settling into a more comfortable position on her bed. "That makes sense. Plus, Jedi's don't mind meld. Jedi's have mind tricks. _Vulcans_ mind meld. It's an easy mistake to make. Even Obama got it mixed up, but there are places where they'd kill you for a mistake like that."

"Where? One of their crazy people conventions?" He laughed. "God, you're a girl _and_ a geek."

"Don't judge me."

He put up his hands in mock surrender. "Not judging…," he reached one hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out his bucket list, scanned it. "I know. I'm _way_ behind on my pop culture. _Watch Star Wars_ is at #24 and _Watch Star Trek is at #29_." He passed her the paper he'd been working on over the past days.

She took it as though she was taking a used tissue, pinching it between her fingertips. She scanned the list with a frown. "I don't think you've gotten the idea of what a bucket list is, John." Her eyes went from item to item. "Everything has to be possible. For example, #42. You can't actually '_become friends with Jack Bauer.'_

"Why not?"

"Well, he's not really a person. There's Jack Bauer, the fictional person and Kiefer Sutherland, the real person."

John shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

"Ahhh," she nodded. "Touché… but how are you actually going to befriend him?"

"Stalk him. Start a fire in his house, let it burn for a while, then teleport in and save his family. Earn his lifelong respect. Easy."

She smiled at that. "Evil, but efficient. I like." Then she went back to the list. "Half of these things here might kill you. #51 – _Integrate yourself within a pride of lions_. How would that work exactly? You'd die."

"Except I can teleport myself to safety if push comes to shove."

"Huh." She folded it back up and handed it to him. "Well, I'll help however I can."

"Yeah." He put the list back into his pocket, his eyes absently wondering over her room again. A moment of silence passed before he cleared his throat. "I've been bunking in a caveman gym. Where shredded dudes work out and sweat and do manly things. Coming from _that _to _this_, the contrast is… overwhelming. I feel like I'm having a panic attack or something. Like I've teleported to Mars."

"_Men_ are from Mars. Women are from Venus."

_And girls, _he wanted to ask, _pretty girls with huge curls and freaky weird rooms… what planet did you come from? And where's the rest of your alien family?_

But how cute was it that she thought she was a woman?

"So," he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints. He should leave her world untouched. Unblemished… "Aside from everything, what is up?"

"What's up?" she echoed.

"Aside from the whole drive by shootout, and Stephen being a synergist and his mom being Wonder Woman. Aside from _that_," he slid his hands further into his coat, "What's up with you?"

She looked like she was about to answer… Her mouth opened and whatever she was going to say died. Her eyes narrowed down to slits. "Stephen sent you here?"

"Stephen doesn't _send_ me anywhere."

Her eyebrows knitted up again, angrily. "So why are you here five minutes after he left?"

John sighed. Best not to lie about it. The Best Friend Motherfucker would obviously tell her later on… "Fine. Yes, I ran in to Stephen, and yes, he asked me to look in on you but–"

She frowned. A sincerely angry frown. A frown he was hoping was more directed at Stephen. "I don't need a babysitter! I told him!"

Right. He moved over to her dresser and slumped against it, a little relaxed that it wasn't him she was pissed off with. "That's what I said. I might be a homeless vagabond, but I have better things to do with my time than babysit fourteen year olds…"

"I'm not fourteen years old. I'm–"

"Where's your dad?" The house was eerily quiet. Lifeless and still.

"Working," she answered with a huff.

"That's good. According to the terms of Stephen's new deal, the way I understand it, you're pretty much free to go back to your normal life…"

Her eyes dipped.

And the gesture caught him off guard. It was so simple. No drama, no theatrics. All she'd done was lowered her eyes. Looked down. Shy. Beautiful. Effortlessly endearing…

_Cheer her up, _Stephen had asked.

And now that he was looking for them, he could see the signs of sadness. If not sadness, unease. Her calm had been disrupted.

"Hey…"

And her eyes flashed up at him. Not angry. Not offended. Just scared. Defensive. He could see the tiredness there now. The evidence of sleepless nights and worry. Her effervescent _girliness _was being snuffed out…

Cara had had her joy snuffed out. There'd not been a whole bundle of it in the first place, true, but the Cara he had known in the early days had been _more._

He'd had has his own joy snuffed out. Slowly in the foster house and more mercilessly by Jedikiah.

Even Stephen was now a little bit less for having come into his own and his role as Tomorrow Person, Chosen One.

Every Tomorrow Person under the sun probably had had that spark snuffed out. That juvenile belief that life was to be enjoyed, crushed. Every single person he'd ever known had fallen into that active melancholia that went along with _knowing_ that someone out there hated your existence enough to want you dead… but watching it happen to Astrid would be too cruel.

He smiled, in an effort to bring some joviality back into the room. Softly, "Hey… Stephen told me that you haven't been to class in a while. That you've not really been leaving the house. I'm not here to force you to go outside or anything. Hell, I lived for _years_ in an underground abandoned railways station. Far be it from me to advertise for the great outdoors, I'm practically a Morlock–"

She wiped at the beginning of a tear that started pooling up. "You know what a Morlock is?"

"I read."

"Except you haven't read Star Wars or Star Trek. They're books too, you know."

"I read _proper_ novels. Classics. Actual literature." He spotted a big tome on her dresser… Bound up with embroidery and steampunk screws… With ink pen disguised as a bird feather. A diary? The most fancy diary in the history of diaries? No padlock though.

He cracked open the cover.

_Oh._

Right there on the first page._ My Bucket List. _

She'd written it down. Just the way he had. With numbers and everything...

"Are you–" she started, half exclaiming, but she didn't make any actual move to stop him.

She had about twenty things on the list. _Two girls and a boy_ was dead last. _Carnegie Hall_ was just above. _Surf_, was fifth. _Year in Tokyo_ was tenth. _Duet with Steven Tyler_ was ninth.

At least it wasn't _two girls and a boy with Steven Tyler_. Which would have made some sense, he supposed. Didn't all teenage girls dream of marrying and/or being impregnated a rockstar?

"Why not have the two girls and a boy with Steven Tyler?"

She plunged her face into her pillow and groaned loudly. "Oh. My. God!" Her hair was all over the place. A stray curl was hooked to the corner of her mouth. "You have no respect for boundaries!"

"What? I showed you mine. Nothing wrong in reciprocation." And that sounded dirty the instant it left his mouth so he followed up quickly with the most innocent look on his face. "No really, why not? It's Steven Tyler, Rock God."

Sure, he could do this. He could be friends with a teenage girl. He could hang out in her room and chitchat and not be a weird pervert paedophile person. No matter how pretty she was, or how wild her hair was, or whose fingers had touched who, or who had saved whose life. No matter that she really had flawless skin and the absolute best smile. No matter that she was all rainbows and gumdrops and sugary enough to cause diabetes. He could do it.

"Stephen sent you here to cheer me up. You guys were talking about me…" and her face went down in the pillow again. "Do you have nothing better to do than talk about me? No world-ending alien invasion or corrupt Men in Black or anything? You're like a bunch of gossipy grandpas. I can't believe he got you to do this."

"What?" John poked a finger at a toy teddy bear that was propped up on a jewellery box. "He's your best friend. He cares about you."

"And you?"

Hmm? _Do not blush_, he commanded himself. _Do not fucking blush. You are a grown man for Christ's sake._

"I care," he grinned. "I'm a big, open-hearted guy. I'm all about doing good deeds, tallying up karma and all that stuff. Come on, aside from Stephen, we're bucket list buddies – we gotta stick together. We _are_ friends," he declared. "Friends share."

She smirked. "Friends share? Well, since we're being invasive today. How about sharing this - why'd you get kicked out of your lair? The real reason."

"Because I wanted to be kicked out?" he shrugged. "I've learnt a couple things about myself recently. Firstly, I suck tremendously at taking orders, regardless of who they're coming from. And secondly, that I haven't been living correctly. All that Chicken Soup for the Soul stuff. I've realised that I haven't done any of that and I sorta got the urge to smell the roses, you know? Roses don't grow underground."

She tumbled forward on her bed, deer eyes taking him. He remained where he was for a moment, just letting her take him in while he went over what he'd just said. Digested it thoroughly.

"Chop chop," he clapped his hands, breaking the moment. "Your turn."

"My turn, what?

"Why not two girls and a boy with Steven Tyler?" Was she holding out for Stephen _Motherfucker _Jameson_?_

"Eww," she pouted. "That would be weird, he's old enough to be my father." Her feet swayed back and forth, then her head tilted to the side. "And since we're sharing secret truths that will never again be spoken of I might as well tell you…"

"Tell me what?"

Her face scrounged up into that look again, then she slumped, pulling her pillow up under her chin. "When I was younger, like thirteen–"

"So, like last year?"

"No, not like last year," she glared. "When I was about twelve, thirteen… when I used to watch too much ETV, I'd totally gotten it into my head that I was another one of his lost love children."

"Like Liv Tyler?"

"Exactly like Liv Tyler. And I'm amazed that you know who that is."

"I haven't seen the Lord of the Rings, but I've read the books and I've seen the posters and I have a pretty good idea of who she is and what she looks like. I read magazines from time to time, you know. I'm not utterly clueless."

"Well, anyway, I really, really embarrassingly deluded myself into thinking that I was his daughter, and I thought I'd learn to play the guitar and become a guitarist for Aerosmith–"

"Oh, well, I thought you were deluded with the duet part here, but it turns out that this is you being rational and toning _down_ the delusion. Okay."

She flung a pillow at him. "Shut up!"

"I mean, you don't even have his lips. That's his trademark! It's not against the laws of the world for Steven Tyler to have a black kid, that's totally possible and he very well might, but I mean, it's totally not possible for _you _to be his kid. How would you have ended up here?" She flung another pillow, but he continued. "And how would that work with your real father not knowing that you were Steven Tyler's kid? And how would that work with your mother? Can you imagine the amount of alcohol, drugs and epically bad decisions it would take for you to be Steven Tyler's kid? Forces beyond the power of man would have to converge. Someone would basically have to go back in time and get Steven Tyler to impregnate your mother... who would have to be a really big fan of rock music–"

"And the spectacular thing is, she's not!" Astrid laughed, "She calls him Aerosmith as if that's his name, Aero Smith, and the only song she knows is that, '_I don't want to close my eyes', _and she only knows that because she's mega into Bruce Willis and watches Armageddon on a monthly basis."

"That sucks."

She laughed.

"But you can still have that duet with him, I guess. It's not like you can't sing. You can sing…"

"My plan was to learn to play the guitar and go sing one of his songs on American Idol."

"Is he still on that?"

She shook her head. Sad again. "Come on. I wasn't being serious. I only put that there as a joke. There's no way that's happening."

"Why not?" he got himself more comfortable on her dresser. "We can find out where he lives. Stalk him for a while, wait until he's alone, and then you can show up with a guitar and start singing one of his jams, and if we catch him in a good mood, he just might sing along, and presto. Duet."

"You're really into stalking."

"Yes. And I thought we weren't judging."

"I'm not!" she held up her hands with a giggle.

One Astrid cheered up. Mission accomplished. "Chop chop," he clapped his hands again. "Lemme hear what I'm dealing with."

"What?"

"What you can actually do on the guitar! I mean, I know you can sing, but to be fair I was halfway unconscious. I need to get the real deal. I want to see Astrid the Rocker. Self-proclaimed fruit of Aero Smith's Loins! Lemme hear you rock out, dudette!" He wondered absently if she'd be one of those headbanger types...

"We're not going to stalk Steven Tyler!" she shrieked.

He held up her book and pointed. "So it is written. So it shall be done."

"No!"

"Yes! And if it turns out that he's surrounded with bodyguards and pitbulls, we'll just teleport out. There's no way we can get in trouble for this. I can read his mind and I can teleport. I've got you covered."

"No!"

"The worst case scenario is that he's bred shark-pitbull hybrids and has vampire ninja guards with laser guns–"

"Who shoot us to death," she finished seriously.

"Who shoot _me _to _near_ death, while I get you away safely without a single scratch," he corrected, "And then you sew me up and sing your magic healing song and we go back to the drawing board and come up with a better plan to deal with vampire ninja guards with laser guns."

A long moment passed where he could do nothing else but grin at her. It hadn't been all that bad getting shot the first time around. Sure it had hurt, but there had also being a copious amount of hand-holding and singing and fingers touching him with girlish trepidation… When he tallied it up in a pros and cons way, he could easily enough say that he didn't mind it at all. He had come out of the entire experience one friend richer. Sure he was homeless now because of actions he'd taken to help out said friend, and sure his world had come crashing down around him as though it had been made of cards, or something even flimsier, paper napkins, maybe… and yes, his life had done nothing but spiral down the chute since he met her… but that wasn't her fault.

He would take another bullet for her. Easily. Even a laser bullet.

"What?" Her face lit up as he grinned.

Like starlight. He said nothing, just looked at her. Watching her face go through about a thousand different smiles, unable to settle on one. "I'm not singing for you again, John!"

"Sing it. Play it. Let me hear it." He shrugged, trying to act as though it was no big thing. "I'm an audience of one. Someone whose opinion doesn't mean anything. I'm not a professional musician, I just listen to a lot of Elton John and Johnny Cash."

Her face screwed up at the mention of Cash.

"If it sucks, that's the end of it, and we'll edit the bucket list into something more doable like _kidnap Steven Tyler and spend a day with him at an amusement park_ or something.

"You say that as though it's legal."

"We're outside of the law, Astrid."

"Why do you want to hear me sing?"

_Because I'm a creepy old man pervert, that's why. I live in a fantasy world where you exist to sing to me. "_Come on, it's no pressure. It's not like your _serenading_ anyone. It's just me."

She huffed, "Just my knight in shining armour."

"Just a random homeless dude."

She laughed. "Is that what you are? My dad, my bio dad–"

"As opposed to your fantasy dad?"

"Yes, as opposed to the fantasy dad, the real one has a strict policy on homeless dudes. I can't bring them in the house."

"Well, I'm not a _random_ homeless dude. I come with a few perks. I'm like a _ronin_ samurai. A freelance bodyguard for hire. All it'll cost you is a sandwich a day."

"One sandwich?" she smiled, "I can afford that…"

More silence…

"Fine." She climbed out of her bed and went to her guitar corner. John tried to not let himself stare at her bare feet on the rosewood floor.

Very photographable feet. All pedicured and perfect. Pink nail polish… The contrast of colours… Very photographable.

She picked up the electric guitar and fussed awkwardly, getting the strap over her. Clearly, she and the instrument weren't too familiar with each other. "I don't actually know how to play any of their songs, though."

"Play whatever."

She frowned. "If you insist."

"Verily, I do insist, my lady."

* * *

_Just when I was out… _He'd allowed himself to be pulled back in to her orbit. Once again, he was adrift in her space. Floating aimlessly in her cotton candy, fairy dusty heaven.

His own fingers moved over the dresser, seeking out something solid to hold on to. His eyes followed her fingers as they moved on the strings, took in her face, her eyes, her mouth

Some songs, he realised, weren't meant to be covered by women with angelic voices. _You're My Star _by Stereophonics was one of them. It was way too…

Too much.

It was different to her deathbed serenade. That time she had sang with an agenda. To reach him as he'd slipped out of consciousness. Now though…

There was edge. And raspiness. And power. And fucking sex.

This was wrong.

Watching her, and her fucking bare feet, and the non-Steven Tyler lips that he couldn't quite look away from… It was near masturbatory. Like watching some kind of amateur school girl porn. Very, very, very wrong. He kept expecting some weirdo dude to come out of nowhere and just rip her clothes off.

This wasn't what Stephen had asked him to do. This was so far beyond that… This was beyond being friendly.

And yet he couldn't stop himself.

For the entire first verse she wouldn't look at him. She kept staring out the window or looking down at her fingers as they'd strummed along on the guitar… He was guessing she wasn't the best at the guitar. Her fingerwork was clumsy at best, horrible really… Nowhere near what he'd been expecting and not really fit for outside ears…

But then the chorus came along and she was all smiles. She just looked him dead in the eye and sang…

_You're my Sunday – make my Monday – come alive  
Just like Tuesday – you're a new day – wakes me up  
Wednesday's raining – Thursday's yearning – for Friday nights  
Then it all ends – at the weekend – you're my star_

What was she even singing about? _Come alive?_ All he could think about was sex and orgasms and fingernails on his back. Clearing off all her pillows and stuffed toys and blankets and ridiculousness and reducing her bed to just a mattress and sheets and two bodies tangled up together.

Yearning? Jesus Christ, what did she know about yearning? She was too young to know the meaning of that word. What it was to _yearn_... to desire something. Someone…

Her guitar work was actually becoming worse as she lost some of her concentration. All smiles now as she was coming down to the end. Amazingly, it was as though she wasn't even aware that she wasn't getting the notes right. She didn't even try for the C#minor. She was putting all her effort into the singing part of it, and that was just fucking excellent.

_It's a thrill to see – your imagination_

_Just watching you – is an education_

_What's in your mind – is my fascination_

_It blows my mind – and sets my heart racing_

He slipped into her mind without a second thought as to whether or not he should… And found that she was actually indeed thinking about getting the chords right.

Huh.

At least she wasn't thinking about Stephen. That was a small mercy right there. Guitar chords… While his mind had gone plunging into the gutter, she'd been thinking about guitar chords.

Then her fingers pulled an extremely bad note and she stopped, a look of horror on her face. Another look for him to add to his scrapbook. Horrified Astrid. She unhooked the guitar and set it back in the corner with extreme delicacy, as though the instrument was on the verge of shattering.

"Why'd you stop?" he asked.

"Because it sucks." - _And because you're way too hot for me to play it cool. Why am I singing to him in my room? Jesus Christ, why is he in my room? Why did I play the fucking guitar? He's not going to be impressed with that? He's a damn superhero who can read minds and teleport, he's not going to be impressed with a stupid guitar. His girlfriend's a fucking __superhero. They're all fucking paranormal superhumans, he doesn't care what you can do–_

He pulled out of her mind. Mission not accomplished then. He rolled up his metaphorical sleeves. He would be king. That's what she'd sang. And she was the damsel in the clutches of the dragon or the seabeast or Cthulhu or whatever.

_What to say? What to say? What to say?_

"Yeah, you suck at the guitar… but I thought you were being ironic or something."

"Ironically sucking?"

He shrugged. "Well, I think it's proven now beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're not Aero Smith's secret love child. Because some kind of guitar instinct would have kicked in. Surely."

She nodded, head down.

He leaned off the dresser and slumped himself down on the bed next to her. With an encouraging shoulder bump, he went on, "The good news is that we can actually fix this. In three easy steps. A – I'm a homeless vagabond with literally nothing to do so I can _teach _you how to play a guitar. Personal tutoring. B – You learn to love that guitar as though it's an extension of your body and not keep it in the corner like it's a decoration, and C, most importantly C–" he looked her in the eyes seriously, "I'm going to need that sandwich that we talked about."

* * *

**AN – Hate it or love it, let me know. Read and review and enjoy. Please and thanks.**


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